In most cases, we do not miss wings, much less the ground under our feet - we have enough of that to spare. The lack is only of propulsion space: then, instead of wings, we only have feathers and the dreams we lose.

Today we were more than three sailing the drunken boa. With bloody eyes, and fingers carved on the feet of the orchids born in silence, we faced the ice where the genesis of the melody crystallized. We had already chased her until we cornered her between the wounds of our fingers and the whip of the strings that couldn’t hold the tension. Now, we charge again and again, until nothing separates us - and it is only then that the tape reaps the scars and secrets that have been dragging their feet in the shade of the intense light As the night fell, I felt steps outside the door of the studio: The stranger, with a hard brow and the skin burnt from the sun. He brought a story, dragging her by her hair and landed her by my feet. And I, who in this, am just a reflection of the voice, I sat me down and the end of the room, watching this the strange spectacle: He carved his teeth on the back of winter ... But today we were not alone in this vessel. The chorus, drunk as well, was hiding for several days between the foam of the waves – he waited until the last breath, and then stormed the boat…